“We’re not tearing along,” Sylvia contradicted. “And I’m driving. I expect the horse will go back to its stable if we don’t interfere with him too much.”
“Who wants to interfere with the brute? Oh, listen to that wheel. I’m sure it’s coming off.”
“Here’s a cab shelter,” Sylvia said, encouragingly. “I’m going to try and pull up.”
Luckily the horse was ready enough to stop, and both of them got out. Sylvia walked without hesitation into the shelter, followed by Arthur with the bags. There were three or four cabmen inside, eating voluptuously in an atmosphere of tobacco smoke, steam, and burnt grease. She explained to them about the cab’s running away, was much gratified by the attention her story secured, and learned that it was three o’clock and that she was in Somers Town.
“Where are you going, missie?” one of the cabmen asked.
“We were going to Waterloo, but we don’t mind staying here,” Sylvia said. “My brother is rather tired and my cat would like some milk.”
“What did the driver look like, missie?” one of the men asked.
Sylvia described him vaguely as rather fat, a description which would have equally suited any of the present company, with the exception of the attendant tout, who was exceptionally lean.
“I wonder if it ’ud be Bill?” said one of the cabmen.
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”